


So let it be deceived

by BakedAppleSauce



Series: The desert is a waste of time [20]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: (seriously there's a lot of panic reactions in this), Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, The truth is revealed, and everybody is freaking the fuck out over it, listen man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 16:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21079739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakedAppleSauce/pseuds/BakedAppleSauce
Summary: The first thought that flits through his mind, strangely, irrationally, is how bloody unfair it is. They're sat down on opposite sides of the desk, for fuck’s sake, not even touching – Alfie wasn’t even looking at him, Tommy thinks, with something close to frantic, helpless anger, too busy rifling through one of the drawers for a pencil.In which the truth comes out.(This is part of a pretty big AU, maybe read some of that first, otherwise this might not make a ton of sense.)





	So let it be deceived

Everything goes to hell on a Wednesday morning.

They’re at the bakery, holed up in Alfie’s office.Ollie has come and gone at some point, needing Alfie's signature on something and… probably didn't close the door all the way when he left, Tommy thinks, because that's the only reasonable explanation as to how somebody just… could have entered the room without either of them realizing. They would’ve heard the door clicking open, at the very least, he’s pretty fucking certain of that. Fuck, he should have _ noticed. _

The first thought that flits through his mind, strangely, irrationally, is how bloody _ unfair _ it is. They're sat down on opposite sides of the desk, for fuck’s sake, not even touching – Alfie wasn’t even _ looking _at him, Tommy thinks, with something close to frantic, helpless anger, too busy rifling through one of the drawers for a pencil.

_ “Oh, because clearly your bed is so fuckin big, eh? That why it gets crowded any time the dog-” _

Alfie had looked up from his drawer then, something undecipherable and sharp on his face, focused on something behind Tommy’s left shoulder and within a fraction of a second, Tommy had _ known. _ Didn’t even need to turn around to confirm, really, except of course he did it anyway. Doesn’t even remember getting out of his chair, but he must’ve done at some point, because they’re all standing now. 

They started out talking about _ roadworks, _ of all things; Tommy’s not even sure how the conversation ended up where it did, but that’s Alfie for you – you stop paying attention for one second and suddenly you’ve wasted fifteen minutes of your life discussing the various merits of pineapple or at what age Karl Marx might have lost his virginity. 

_ “Oh, because clearly your bed is so fuckin big, eh? That why-” _

There's a loud, banging noise when Alfie slams the drawer shut that doesn't quite seem to register with anybody. Fuck. The stupid remark keeps tumbling around in his head,_ because clearly your bed, _and maybe he can save this, he thinks, it wasn’t even that bad, nothing graphic, maybe he could explain it away- 

They just stand there for an endless moment, staring at John staring at them. His brother has never been one to overanalyze things, Tommy knows, never one to carefully think them through to the very end; he’s always run on instinct – but apparently that’s all it takes, because he arrives at the right conclusion with horrifying accuracy. 

“You… have you been fucking?”

He doesn’t even sound that scandalized, just stunned._ “Him?!” _ he adds in Tommy’s direction, voice going a bit shrill, like the fact that Tommy said that sentence to Alfie Solomons of all people is the main issue here.

Tommy, if he’s perfectly honest, has forgotten for a moment that Alfie is even there. Too much blood rushing in his ears. But next to him, Alfie is drawing himself up to his full height – he’s had one of his palms planted on the desktop, hunched over a bit – and now it’s almost like he’s unfolding, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. There’s violence radiating off of him like heat. 

Fuck.

“Don’t,” Tommy growls at him. “I swear to God-”

If Alfie’s heard him, he ignores him completely, because he’s moving like an arrow zeroing in on a target, his earlier limping completely gone for now; coming to a stop directly in front of John who still seems baffled, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking at him like he’s never seen him before in his life. Tommy starts reaching for his weapon automatically. If he has to stop this at gunpoint, he thinks with something close to panic, he fucking will.

“Alfie,” he snaps, again. “I’m bloody serious-”

That’s as far as he gets before Alfie rears back and, in a movement that’s so precise it’s almost elegant, smashes his head straight into John’s face. John, clearly not expecting any of it and therefore unprepared, goes down to the floor with a surprised sound. Immediately, there’s blood pouring out of his nose.

“What the hell!” he shouts, muffled, already trying to get his feet back under him. “You fuck!”

Alfie ignores that too, turns and marches out of the room. There’s frantic movement on John’s part and it takes Tommy more than a second to realize he’s going for his gun now as well, trying to go after him.

“Enough,” he barks, and John shouts_ “What!”, _ sounding even more outraged than before and when Tommy grabs his arm – to keep him from running out, or just to help him the rest of the way back to his feet, he’s not even sure – he pushes Tommy away, puts enough force behind it to make him stumble backwards a step or two.

_ “Enough,” _ Tommy growls again, not even registering the pain, with every fiber of authority he’s ever held; makes it an order, and John stops in his tracks, thank God, and turns towards him again. There’s blood seeping down his neck and into his collar and he doesn’t even seem to notice, too fucking furious to care. 

“Tom,” he spits. “Tommy, _ what the fuck?” _

“We’re leaving,” Tommy tells him, and he had no idea he was going to say that, but as soon as he hears it out loud, it seems like the only viable decision to make. “Come on.” 

There's dread running through him like bile, stomach churning – at the possibility of Alfie coming back into the room, as well as the thought that he might be out the door for good, might be leaving right now, and never so much as look at Tommy ever again. 

He grabs at John’s arm, which earns him a glare, but there’s no actual protest this time. They leave the office with John pressing one hand over his mouth, in a too-late, half-hearted attempt to keep the blood from going everywhere, Tommy dragging him along like a disobedient child. He barely has the wherewithal to look where they’re going, which doesn’t matter anyway, because he knows the way by heart, and _ fuck, _ when the fuck did that even happen. 

He’s dimly aware of Ollie hovering in the background as soon as they leave the room, like the spineless little rat that he is, with his arms crossed and looking awkward, but he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t try to stop them either. Jesus Christ, Tommy thinks, all of a sudden, Ollie knows as well. 

Which is something he was aware of, but it’s been a peripheral sort of thing in the back of his mind, like the knowledge that Rome is the capital of Italy; a fact, yes, but nothing that’s held any immediate relevance. 

He digs his fingers into John’s arm. John makes an enraged noise, muffled by his own palm and yanks his arm away – but he doesn’t slow down and he doesn’t stop following him until they’re out on the street and safely settled back into their own car.

* * *

They make it back to the hotel in livid silence. 

When the concierge sees them and, clearly taken aback, asks “Sir, would you like me to call a-” John barks _ “Fuck off!” _at him so loudly it seems to echo off the walls. He’s fished a handkerchief out of the glove compartment of the car, which is doing too little, too late; despite the fact that the injury isn’t all that bad, Tommy can already tell, and it’s not like John’s never broken his nose before, but still, he looks like he’s been in a massacre. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Tommy hisses at him, because the last thing he’s in the mood for right now is having to deal with the kind of scene that would require him to put up a civilized front while he’s handing over money. 

“You shut the fuck up,” John hisses back, spraying blood at him in the process and not caring in the slightest. He’s headed straight for his own hotel room, out of instinct or because he’s trying to make a statement, Tommy’s not sure. Once they’re inside, there’s more silence at first. John throws his cap onto the next available surface, before he fumbles with his top button, removes his collar and throws that, too. It’s ruined with mostly dried blood by now, anyway.

Tommy shoves his hands into his pockets as deep as they will go, balling them into fists. Tries to get his face under control, to look like he couldn’t care less about any of this. 

“Fuck me, Tom,” John says eventually, and he sounds _ genuine, _ of all things, which is the worst fucking part about it. Then he stops himself, looking at Tommy expectantly, like it’s Tommy’s fucking turn now to say something. Tommy stares back at him, keeping his face carefully blank. After a few seconds, John throws his arms in the air with a frustrated sound. He’s clearly thinking about what he’s going to say, arranging his next sentence inside his own head before saying it out loud, which is something that he doesn’t do very often. 

“I mean if... bloody hell, Tom, if it’s men you want-” he says then, unexpectedly, and Tommy might actually be fucking sick, he realizes, he might throw up right here, right now, he can’t fucking do this – he thought he could, but that was a mistake. He can’t. 

John continues on, merciless in his obliviousness, making some dumb, sweeping gesture with his arm that’s probably meant to signify something. “If that’s what you want, then… bet you anything there’s a ton of blokes out there who want the same bloody thing!” 

Tommy stares at him and tries very hard to make sense of anything John just said. The words seem to make perfect sense individually, but Tommy’s brain can’t seem to put them together to form anything that even resembles meaning.

“The same thing,” he repeats stupidly.

“Yes,” John says, looking almost relieved that Tommy seems to have gotten the message. “Go fuck... somebody else, I guess. ‘Cause this is fucking mental, Tommy. You can’t carry on with Alfie Solomons. You fucking _ can’t, _that man got Arthur bloody charged with murder.”

Like Tommy doesn’t fucking _ know _ that, like Tommy wasn’t _ there _for all of it, like Tommy wasn’t the one who got that whole situation turned around again, sat down in Alfie’s office and-

He’s moving, he realizes suddenly, as he’s already taken a step and then another one, and only after the third one does he know for certain that he’s headed for the bathroom, because everything feels very slow and very far away. There’s the washbasin and he’s staring at it for a moment, almost confused, before he’s doubling over, grabbing at the edge for balance.

Then he throws up.

It’s mostly liquid, because he hasn’t really eaten anything yet. John is saying something from somewhere near the doorway, Tommy’s dimly aware of that, but he can’t hear him and he also doesn’t really want to listen. There’s a hand squeezing the back of his neck for a moment, a heavy, rough gesture that’s clearly meant to be comforting, before it’s gone again. 

He spits the last of it into the basin, wiping at his mouth. Bends down to get a mouthful of water straight from the tap, forces himself to swallow it down. It tastes strangely bitter. There’s movement to his left – John’s back, carrying a bottle of… something. Whisky. He looks fucking terrible, Tommy thinks.

“Here you fuckin’ go,” John says and hands him the bottle, already opened. Tommy takes it from him without a word, tips his head back and lets the alcohol burn down his sore throat. His stomach rebels almost instantly, something that’s closer to pain than actual nausea, but for some reason, that seems to help him calm down a bit. He takes another swig before handing it back.

John’s sat down on the edge of the bathtub, takes the bottle back and takes a sip as well, heedless of the fact that Tommy threw up less than a minute ago. There’s more silence. Tommy is leaning with his back against the washbasin, still clutching at the edges. 

Eventually, John takes a deep breath and, looking at the bottle in his hand almost thoughtfully, murmurs “Esme’s been saying it for a while now, right? You must been getting laid or something. Said you seemed… more relaxed.”

Tommy’s stomach rolls again. Jesus _ fucking Christ. _

“Esme needs to mind her own fuckin’ business.”

John makes a non-committal sound at that. 

“But I mean…” He stares down at the ground, back at the bottle, studiously avoiding Tommy’s gaze. For his part, Tommy couldn’t look away from him if he fucking tried. “With, erm, with hi-” John says and then stops himself. “I mean, it’s… it’s good, right?”

The memory of last night hits Tommy like a rock to the temple; fingers twisting in the bed sheet as he’s coming down Alfie’s throat, and how useless his legs felt afterwards. How they argued about the monarchy later, despite being on the same fucking page about it. Alfie considers the royal family “a bunch of useless, bloodsucking cunts”, which is pretty much how Tommy feels about them as well – except last night he pretended not to, just for argument’s sake. 

“What the fuck kind of question is that?” He almost shouts it, feeling his face heat up, embarrassed and suddenly furious about it.

“No!” John says hastily, mouth twisting, but he still seems weirdly earnest and not like that was the wrong fucking thing to ask. “Not like that, Tommy, _ Jesus. _ Spare us the fuckin’ details. I just mean, you know… You’re not… doing this for some fucked up reason? Like a, a plan? Or like, I don’t fucking know, a punishment? I don’t know, you think you deserve it or something?”

Tommy blinks at him, taken aback. 

“No,” he says then, quietly, staring down at the floor. For some reason, admitting that he’s doing all of this voluntarily… it’s so much worse somehow. “S’all right.”

“He’s not blackmailing you or something?” John says after a beat, but he’s clearly not being serious about it. “Wait. Are _ you _ blackmailing _ him?” _

“Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters, dragging a hand down his face.

They stay where they are silently for a while; Tommy lights up, fumbling with the lighter and almost dropping it at one point.

“You can’t tell Arthur about this, fuckin’ hell,” John says suddenly, horrified. “He’s gonna have a fit about it. Tommy, I’m fucking serious.”

“I’m not planning on telling anybody,” Tommy says, very calmly. He’s looking straight at John, which takes a lot of effort. John stares at him, very clearly circling through all the implications and possible consequences in his head only now. 

“Well, yeah, okay, no, ‘course you’re not,” he says then, very seriously, and then, after another moment of silence, adds, “Anybody know?”

“No.”

John’s head comes up at that, looking surprised. “Not even-”

“No,” Tommy says again, too fast, because he can’t even begin to think about Polly right now or he’s going to be sick again. Focuses his attention back on John instead. His nose still looks bad – the swelling seems to be over and done with, but the skin is getting darker by the minute, the bruise spreading all the way to the area under his eyes. John catches him staring and waves a hand, like that is the least of all their worries.

“Nevermind that. Somebody bumped into me on the street, I had to teach ’em a lesson. End of fucking story.” 

“You mean, you won that fight?”

“’Course I fucking did, Tom.”

“All right.”

* * *

About half an hour later, he dials Alfie’s home number, because Alfie seriously might have just left and gone home, and Tommy _ hates _himself, suddenly, for even considering that, for knowing Alfie this well. Hangs up with more force than necessary and dials the bakery instead. 

Some unknown voice answers the phone, which isn’t that unusual – if Ollie is occupied, somebody else will man the phone from time to time. 

“Shelby,” he says, with as much authority he can muster. “Put me through.”

When he gets Alfie on the phone, there is a long silence at first. He half-expects Alfie to ask questions, wanting to know the details, but he doesn’t.

“So... he knows, then,” is what he finally says.

“Yeah,” Tommy says.

Alfie hangs up on him.

Tommy blinks at nothing for a few seconds, heart hammering in his chest. Then he dials the bakery again. The same gullible sounding voice answers the telephone and Tommy makes a split-second decision. If he asks for Alfie again, all that bastard needs to do is to tell whoever this person is to get rid of him – that call didn’t end by accident just now.

“Shelby,” he says, again. “Go and get Ollie on the bloody phone.”

“I’m sorry?” the voice says, sounding confused. “You want-”

“Ollie,” Tommy repeats. “Right fucking now.”

He lights a cigarette as he waits. 

“Mr. Shelby?” Ollie’s voice finally says on the other end of the line. “Why are you-”

“Right,” Tommy interrupts and he’s angry, he realizes all of a sudden, he’s boiling with it, he’s _ furious. _ “Now you fuckin’ listen to me. You go in there and you fuckin’ tell him, if he’s not on the phone within the next ten seconds, we’re fucking done. Eh? You hear me? If he’s not on the phone, we’re finished, I’m bloody finished with him. You got that?”

“I did, I got that,” Ollie says. “Just a minute.”

There’s more silence. 

“Yeah?” Alfie says then, and just hearing his voice makes Tommy so angry he wants to throw the phone at the wall.

“You ever hang up on me again, we’re done. Eh? I don’t fucking need this!”

There is a long exhale on the other end of the line and then Alfie’s voice, calm as anything, like they’ve been talking about the weather and for the life of him he can’t understand what all this excitement is about, says, “Settle down, Tommy, bloody hell.”

Tommy doesn’t hang up so much as slam the receiver back onto the bloody telephone with enough force he’s worried he might have broken it for a second.

_ “Fuck,” _ he says to the empty room.

The room, predictably, doesn’t care at all. 

**Author's Note:**

> The wheel of fate has spoken and for some strange reason, it chose John to be the first one In The Know. Don't ask me why, in the middle of the night that seemed to make perfect sense.
> 
> I'm [bakedapplesauce](https://bakedapplesauce.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.


End file.
